


We Tripped on the Urge to Feel Alive

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Break Up, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Dubcon Kissing, F/M, Gen, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, dubcon touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 01:36:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10934274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: i want something else, to get me through this lifeJughead is spiraling out of control.





	We Tripped on the Urge to Feel Alive

**Author's Note:**

> [Prompt](https://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1356.html?thread=124236#cmt124236): _Jughead joins the serpents, but his "inner darkness" is a lot worse than anyone thought. The specifics are up to you, but alcohol/drug abuse was one of the thoughts w this one. + protective Serpents who are wary of Archie or Betty trying to interfere_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I had been wanting to write some Serpent!Jughead anyway, plus the fallout of his and Betty's relationship. This was a fun prompt to fill! It's pretty much plotless, aside from exploring Jughead's foray into drug use and violence. It's open ended, but I don't plan on continuing it further. 
> 
> Also, I think the fandom has determined that the kid in the season finale that stole Jug's fries is named Ricky? But I named my character before that was determined; the Ricky in this is actually based on a guy I knew a couple years ago, so. Just in case there was any confusion. 
> 
> Anywho, hope you like it!

The minute his hands close around the leather, Jughead feels a calm he hasn’t ever known before. The eyes on him ( _Serpents’, Betty’s_ ) would normally make him feel tight in his skin. Anxiety and discomfort, both would burn like twin fires inside his lungs. But he doesn’t feel them now.

Holding the jacket in his hands is _right_. It’s comforting. It’s warm and he traces the emblem on the back with his eyes. The world falls away as he shrugs it on. It’s a touch too big and hangs off his frame heavily. The sleeves hit his wrists at just the right spot and Jughead stares at his knuckle; he stares at the shadow the jacket casts across his pasty skin.

A small sound draws his attention and he looks over at Betty. She’s still pink from the cheeks down, but she’s redressed and has a dainty hand poised over her kiss-bitten mouth. Her eyes are wet, swimming in unshed tears, and her soft gasps are just as damp.

“Bets.” He murmurs. He looks back at the crowd that’s gathered outside the trailer.

The man who passed him the jacket nods. “We’ll be goin’, you know where to find us if you need anything.” He locks eyes with Jughead before turning away. The crowd of Serpents dissipates with lingering looks thrown back at Jughead.

Once they’re all gone, Jughead slips back into the trailer. He doesn’t let the door fall shut. Not all the way. Something tells him it’s pointless.

“Betty,” he says again, louder. “It’s not—stop looking at me like that.”

Betty shakes her head and starts to search for her jacket.

“Betty.” Jughead reaches out and grips her elbow gently. “We should talk about this.”

“What’s there to talk about, Jug?” She snaps back. She won’t look at him at all now and it’s both better and worse than the pitiful, teary gaze from before. “You’re—you’re going to make the same mistakes your dad made.”

Jughead snorts. “It’s a jacket.” He tells her sharply.

“It’s so much more than _just_ a jacket, Jug. And you _know_ it.” Her own coat found, Betty slips it on. Finally, she faces Jughead again. Her arms are crossed tight across her chest and she holds her arms like a hug; like she’s trying to keep herself together.

“I’m still me. I can still be myself. It’s just…” Jughead looks back at the cracked open door. “It’s a family. It’s a place, for me.” He meets Betty’s eyes. “It’s like I told you. This is somewhere I can belong.”

Betty shakes her head again. She shrugs and laughs mirthlessly, then brushes past Jughead. “Good night,” she says quietly. She’s out the door and gone with a gust of chilly wind blowing through the trailer in her wake.

Jughead tugs the jacket around him tighter. He sleeps in his dad’s bed that night, more soundly than he has the entire past week.

 

 

 

Jughead steps into the Whyte Wyrm without fanfare. He nods and raises a hand in greeting to a few of the Serpents. Quickly, he’s waved over to the bar by a familiar face.

“Hey kid,” a gruff voice rumbles under the other chatter of the patrons. The man behind the counter is J.D. Jughead likes him best of all the Serpents he’s come to know so far. He’s not much older, doesn’t treat Jughead like a child… but he’s got a wisdom to him, written in the various scars across his face and arms.

“Hey,” Jughead replies. He clambers up onto a stool with a grace he hasn’t mastered yet and mutters thanks when J.D. passes down a can of soda.

“Rough day at school?”

Jughead laughs. “Hardly.” No one gives him trouble. No one gives the Serpents _any_ trouble at South Side High. Often Jughead wonders if this is how Cheryl and Jason used to feel at Riverdale High. In charge, worshipped, _feared_. His status as FP’s kid only heightens the experience. Nobody wants to fuck with him, but everybody wants to be his friend.

It’s jarring and Jughead knows he should feel unsettled. He only feels welcomed.

“Just boring,” he adds after a long beat.

J.D. nods along. “Homework?” He asks. Like he does every day when Jughead stops by.

Jughead just shoots him an unimpressed smirk.

J.D. doesn’t comment on the look. He moves swiftly between serving other bar-goers and cleaning glasses as they’re emptied. “S’Friday, isn’t it?”

Jughead shrugs. “Yeah, not that it means much.”

“No plans?”

Jughead shakes his head. He’s been studiously dodging Archie’s texts and calls and attempts to meet up; Betty gave up trying to talk to him a few nights after he first got his jacket. Veronica tried once, before leaving him a nasty voicemail as penance for hurting Betty.

“You could stick around. The guys won’t mind.”

Jughead looks up.

J.D. smiles. “You’re one of us, kid. Why not hang out and see what all the fuss is about, huh?”

Jughead casts a gaze around the bar and nods slowly. “Alright, sure. Why not?”

J.D.’s grin widens; his teeth are crooked and yellowing between chapped lips. “What should I start you off with?” He asks as he pulls the empty soda can from Jughead’s fingertips.

Jughead tilts his head curiously.

“If you’re gonna stick around, might as well have some fun, right?”

Jughead blinks. “It’s like, four in the evening.”

“No such thing as too early.” J.D. tells him seriously. “What’ll it be?”

“I—I’ve never drank before.”

That throws J.D. off and his surprise bleeds across his expression. “Really?”

“Dad wasn’t exactly eager to let me follow in his footsteps.”

J.D. laughs. Full-bellied and loud, he throws his head back. “Of all the times to have a moral compass.” He mutters quietly. “Well, he’s not here now. What kinda stuff you normally like?”

Jughead’s eyes glide to the rows of bottles behind J.D. Some are bright, some are dark, all are intimidating. By the time he opens his mouth to decide, there’s already a drink in front of him. He looks at the deep brown liquid in a short glass, then looks up at J.D.

“Rum and coke. Start you off easy.”

“Rum is easy?” Jughead asks in disbelief. He brings the glass to his lips and takes a careful, measured sip. It burns immediately, but the sweetness of the cola blends with the spice of the rum. He coughs once before chasing the ache with another swallow. It stings all the way down and settles in his gut; he’s almost painfully aware of the sensation of alcohol starting to course through his veins.

“Good?” J.D. asks.

Jughead clears his throat and sets the glass down, ignoring the temptation to drink more. “It’s not bad.”

J.D. beams. “Well when you’re done with that, lemme know and I’ll set you up with something else. We’ll figure out your taste yet, kid. Just takes time.”

 

They’ve got it down to a science two weeks later. Jughead’s never been a picky eater, but he learns quick that alcohol is completely different. He’s not like Archie or Moose or Reggie, who’ll drink any swill stuck in front of them. He’s not one for sweet things, or overly bitter things. Bourbon was something he’d be happy not to experience again any time soon. He likes citrus, but too much makes his tongue hurt.

J.D. gives him endless shit over it, but doesn’t stop trying to concoct a drink that’ll get Jughead good and smashed and taste fantastic while doing so.

It’s a gin and tonic with extra lime that ultimately wins Jughead over.

 

 

 

He’s drunk and propped up against the bar when a couple other serpents start clamoring. He perks up a bit and stares over the crowd that’s gathered around one of the pool tables. The chatter is unintelligible, slurred and stumbling. There’s the unmistakable sound of a lighter catching and soon after the crowd calms.

J.D. leans over the bar and murmurs in Jughead’s ear. “Couple guys got some joints from outta town, nice stuff.”

“Don’t we…”

“Yeah, but smokin’ your own stash gets old pretty quick.” J.D. shrugs. “Besides, if you smoke all your goods, what’re you gonna sell?”

Jughead ‘ah’s quietly. “Makes sense.”

A moment passes as smoke starts to pool above the crowd, thick and heavy. The stench permeates the entire bar and Jughead wrinkles his nose.

“Want to try?” J.D. asks.

Jughead’s thoughts are sluggish but his reply isn’t. “No, no. I’m good.” He brings his drink to his lips and sips at it hurriedly.

“It’s not gonna kill you.” J.D. tells him. He’s not quite insisting, but close.

Jughead shakes his head again. “I’m good. Besides,” he shakes his almost empty glass for emphasis, “I’ve got this.”

J.D. plucks the glass from his hands and knocks back what’s left. “C’mon.” He comes around the side of the bar and takes Jughead by the arm. He barely pulls before Jughead is slipping off the stool and following behind him. Jughead blinks and tries to keep his thoughts clear, but moving and breathing and thinking all at the same time is too much when he has three—wait, maybe four. No, _five_ —whatever, with a _couple_ drinks in his system.

He focuses on walking and remembering to breathe, and puts thinking too hard aside for now.

“Step aside, boss’ kid wants to try it.” J.D. announces as he pulls Jughead through the crowd. They keep moving up until they’re beside Ricky, another Serpent. Jughead likes him, too. He’s gruff and quiet and has knuckles that seem perpetually bruised. “Pass it over,” J.D. commands while holding out his hand.

A Serpent beside Ricky passes along a joint. J.D. takes it and brings it to his lips. Jughead watches him inhale, watches the flickering amber glow of the end. J.D. holds it in as he drops the drug from his lips before letting out the thick smoke in a long exhale.

“Think you can manage?” He asks while holding the roach out to Jughead.

Jughead nods. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a _writer_.” That earns a scattered amount of chuckles but Jughead forgets about them as he brings the joint to his lips. Eyes slipping shut, he inhales slowly and carefully. It burns. Burns worse than the rum a few weeks ago, and makes his stomach churn. He keeps inhaling until J.D. taps him on the shoulder and takes the joint back.

“C’mon, kid. Don’t be a dick. Let it out.”

Jughead obeys. The smoke still scalds as it slips between his lips, and he manages to last until he’s nearly finished: only at the end does he start to cough. J.D. passes the joint back to another Serpent and holds Jughead’s shoulder. Eventually he moves to slap at Jug’s back.

“Alright?”

Feeling red in the cheeks, Jughead nods and wipes subtly at his mouth. “Yeah.” He watches the joint get passed around to a couple other people. “Should—Can I—?”

“Nah. You took a pretty big hit, and you’re already drunk. Take it easy tonight, okay?” J.D. speaks as he guides Jughead back to the bar. “You’ll be feeling it soon, I bet.”

Jughead just nods.

 

 

 

“Jughead?”

He looks up, beer poised at his lips as he does. He’s sitting outside his trailer. The chairs around him are empty for the moment while the other Serpents are on a beer run. In front of him, Archie stands stock still.

“Hey Arch,” he replies belatedly. He sets his beer aside and struggles to stand. Awkwardly he scratches at his neck and tries to look his friend in the eye. “How you been?”

Archie opens and closes his mouth a couple times. “What the hell is this?” He gestures to the jacket and the scattered beer cans. He scrunches up his nose and Jughead watches him mouth the word _“weed”_ under his breath.

“Uh, it’s nothing.”

Archie looks appalled and Jughead lets go of his shame. He allows it to give way to irritation.

“Please, Andrews, like you haven’t been to plenty of keggers.” He shoves his hands deep in his pockets and kicks at the ground.

“This isn’t a kegger, Jughead. It’s—it’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”

Jughead sighs and looks up at the murky sky. “Whatever.”

Archie opens his mouth, but Jughead never finds out if it’s to lecture him or beg him to come back to school, or _whatever_. Jughead never finds out. The words are drowned out by the revving of motorcycles, the hooting and hollering of Serpents.

Archie doesn’t flee. It almost surprises Jughead, but not quite.

After a while the other Serpents rejoin Jughead outside his trailer and they all watch Archie with suspicious eyes.

“Who’s the kid?” Ricky asks as he pulls a beer from the cooler.

“That’s Andrews’ son,” another one pipes up before Jughead can.

Archie starts to cow under the onslaught of stares. A deep, hidden-away part of Jughead aches. Suddenly, a pang of longing for Archie’s friendship. Just as quick as it appeared, it’s gone again.

“You should go, Archie.” Jughead says it over the murmurs of his companions. “There’s nothing to say.”

Archie opens his mouth again, but snaps it shut with a click when Ricky takes a step forward. Archie still lingers a moment longer; he stares at Jughead and frowns in a deep and ugly way. He nods and leaves without a word, but the air feels thick even after he’s gone.

“You let us know if any of them are givin’ you trouble, alright?” Ricky mutters a few hours later.

Jughead, mind fuzzy from alcohol and a couple joints, shrugs.

 

 

 

By the time Jughead sees any of his old friends again, he’s long since learned to function while completely wasted.

It’s in the supermarket, of all the places. He’s leaning heavily on the cart for support and he feels a little sick. Drinking to stave off a hangover doesn’t always work the way he wants it to.

They see each other from across opposite ends of the aisle. He turns down aisle six at the same moment Archie, Betty, and Veronica turn at the other end.

At the same time they all freeze.

Jughead contemplates backing out of the aisle and just leaving. But one look at Veronica’s sneer has Jughead propelled forward by sheer spite. He strolls along as though he doesn’t see them and gathers the things he needs like nothing is out of place.

It’s fine, up until he gets to the end of the aisle and the three of them are still blocking his path.

“Jughead,” Betty greets softly.

“Hey, Bets.” He nods and swallows the dizzy feeling.

Veronica leans over and in a stage-whisper announces, “he’s totally drunk.”

“Thanks, Ronnie.” Jughead counters in a tone that’s obnoxiously loud. “I had _no_ idea.” His fingers twitch with the urge to reach for the flask tucked inside his jacket.

“Jug.” Archie steps forward. “This isn’t you. This isn’t what…”

“This isn’t what I wanted?” Jughead adds, following up the words with a scoff. “Please, Andrews, you barely know what _you_ want, god forbid knowing what your ‘best friend’ ever wanted.” He pushes his cart forward but rather than scattering the three of his former friends just stumble backwards. “If you could move, that’d be great. I’ve got some shit to finish.”

Veronica huffs and storms off. Her heels click-click-click away, fading into nothing eventually.

“Juggie, you…” Betty peers around Archie’s shoulder.

“Good seein’ you.” He says without feeling before pushing his cart past them both.

 

 

 

One minute, he’s three gin and tonics down and feeling good.

The next, his knuckles are split and bloody and feeling even _better_.

 

“Jesus, kid.” J.D. mutters as he dabs a warm cloth at the cut above Jughead’s eyebrow. “What the hell was that?”

Jughead shrugs. “I don’t know. Don’t even remember what started it.” He squeezes his eyes shut tight and tries to recall the moments before someone—maybe him, or maybe not—threw the first punch. It’s all hazy. “I think someone bumped into me.”

“So you decked them?”

Jughead opens one eye, his good eye, and glares. “Like you or Ricky haven’t done the same exact thing.”

J.D. just laughs. “Fair enough.” He shakes his head. “Just try not to lose your shit on _every_ person who happens to bump into you. Got it?” He offers an ice pack wrapped in a thin towel to Jughead.

Jughead takes it and holds it to his eye. “Got it,” he agrees.

 

 

 

Jughead is just starting to doze when a knock on the trailer door startles him.

He looks over and tries to remember how to make his limbs work. He usually only comes here when his foster home feels too crowded and Whyte Wyrm feels too stifling. He comes here for peace and quiet; he comes here, to his empty-as-ever former home, to drown his thoughts in liquor. No one ever comes to visit him, either because they know better than to disturb him or they simply don’t know where to find him.

Eventually he manages to stand and stumble toward the door. He’s more drunk than he thought… the realization hits him as he fumbles with the doorknob. Drinking while sitting is misleading; what he thought was a pleasant buzz is verging on completely plastered.

He finally gets the door open then freezes. “Bets?” He blinks a few times, as though the girl before him will disappear.

“Hey Jug,” she replies softly. “Can I come in?”

Jughead checks the urge to look at the trailer: he knows perfectly well it’s a wreck, and he knows there are far too many bottles and cans strewn about. “It’s a mess.” He says it sheepishly with an awkward shrug.

Betty doesn’t smile and there’s no familiar softness in her eyes. “I don’t care, Jughead. Can I come in?” She asks again in a voice that’s a little firmer.

Jughead nods. “Uh, yeah. I guess.” He steps back and she counters by slipping inside. “Sorry about the… yeah.”

Betty’s gaze skims over the evidence of what his life has become, and eventually her gaze slides to him. “Jughead…”

He doesn’t snap at her, like he did Archie. He ignores her and that soft, pitying tone. He returns to his seat on the couch and retrieves his bottle from where he’d set it on the floor. “What’s up?” He asks after a long sip.

She stands on the other side of the cluttered coffee table. “How have you been?”

He doesn’t gesture to the state of the trailer, which speaks volumes on its own. “Alright. School’s good.” He can’t help but look her up and down; he can’t help but catalogue what she’s wearing. Like muscle memory, he starts to describe it in his head. Or, he tries, but the words are slurred and not as pretty as before. He hasn’t touched his laptop in months.

“How’re you?” He asks as he sits up a little straighter.

“I’m okay.” Betty replies, nodding. “Polly had the twins a little while ago. They’re healthy.” When she laughs, it’s wet. “You should see their hair, Jug.”

“Red?”

Betty nods while still laughing. “The look on my mom’s face, you would’ve loved it.” She seems to sober quickly as her laugh dies off. “You’ve missed a lot. You’ve _been_ missed a lot.”

Jughead looks away and opts for staring down the bottle of his beer than Betty’s wide baby-blues.

“I miss you.” She adds.

“I know.” Jughead rests his elbows on his knees and swallows his panic. “I know.”

“So come back,” Betty declares. Suddenly she moves towards him, sits beside him, grabs his arm and shakes him gently. She reaches out and takes the beer from his hand and puts it aside. “Come back to Riverdale, Jug. We all miss you. We’re worried about you.”

Head still swimming, Jughead tries to parse through her words. “I belong here,” he says it practically on autopilot.

“No, you don’t.”

“I do!” He pulls out of her grasp and stands. He goes up too fast and starts to stagger, and Betty catches him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “This is where I’ve always belonged.” He spits it out again but Betty doesn’t recoil this time.

“No, it’s not.” Her hands glide until she can hold his. She links their fingers and her hands are so soft against his own—his own that are still littered with scrapes and bruises from the last time he got into it at the Whyte Wyrm. “You belong with us. With me, and Archie. Even Ronnie misses you.”

Jughead scoffs.

“She _does_.” Betty tries for a smile. It’s framed by her soft pink lipstick and Jughead zeroes in on the color, barely hears her words. “No one else gets her gratuitous movie references. Even Archie is lost at this point.”

Jughead wants to smile, but can’t remember how to make it happen. Can’t remember how to laugh at something that isn’t a Serpent being drunk or someone getting their ass handed to them. He blinks and tilts his head back. “I’m too drunk for this,” he says plainly.

Betty doesn’t let go. “I figured.” She holds his hands tighter, if anything. “I’ve been talking with the school counselor, she said there’s… programs.” Betty broaches the word hesitantly.

Jughead’s brow furrows. “Programs.”

“For you. So you can get better.” A spark ignites in Betty’s eyes: hope. “She mentioned one that’s specifically for teens, it’d be perfect. I think—?”

“You think what, Bets? I’ll get ‘cured’ and then what? I go back to living with my foster family, and start this whole thing over again?” He pushes the words out as fast as he can think them and knows he’s speaking almost too slurred to make sense.

“No, we’ll—the counselor said that she can help with dealing with your case worker, and see if we can get you placed in a different home. It’s not like they’re actually taking care of you, Juggie… they’re… look at you.”

Jughead can’t decide whether he wants to deflate or explode. Part of him is overwhelmed with shame and guilt; the rest of him is simmering with rage.

“I want you to be safe, and happy, and _home_. And this isn’t home for you, Jughead.” Betty shuffles minutely closer. She lets go of one of his hands and brings it up to Jughead’s cheek instead. “If you’re willing to try, we’ll do whatever it takes to make it happen. We’ll help you. We’ll be there every step of the way.”

She tilts her head and flashes him a small, tentative smile.

Jughead leans in and kisses her rather than replying. He can feel her tense; her lips are unmoving and her nails are biting into his skin—on his hand, on his face. But he doesn’t pull back, because she’s so warm and soft and she’s leaning into him just enough to make his heart race. He kisses her and licks the seam of her lips slowly.

Her lips don’t part for him, which isn’t surprising. He brings his free hand to her hip. He holds her tight and slips his thumb under her shirt. When she still won’t kiss him back, he starts to pepper kisses down her neck.

“Jughead,” she speaks in a shaky voice.

“Jughead.” She says it again and her nails dig in hard enough to draw blood. They’ll leave marks on him that mirror the ones on her own palms. Does she still have those anymore? Jughead doesn’t even know.

“Jughead!” She shoves at him when his hand starts to push her shirt up. She shoves him and sends him stumbling backwards, and this time she doesn’t move to steady him. Her eyes are shining worse than before and her face is candy apple red. The flush is ugly, blotchy, and Jughead feels a distant pang of shame at putting such a color on her skin.

Her lip even quivers, like something out of a Lifetime movie.

Jughead just shrugs. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Betty opens her mouth and looks ready for a fight, but stops. She slowly closes her mouth and unclenches her hands and in the end, she walks away same as she did that first night. Except she doesn’t even say good bye this time. She just walks out and slams the door shut behind her, and just like that Jughead’s life is back to normal.

 

 

 

“Happy birthday, punk!” J.D. crows as he slings an arm around Jughead’s shoulders. “Seventeen!” As he shouts, he shakes Jughead and laughs. “How does it feel?”

Jughead laughs. “The same? I don’t know. It’s not that different.”

J.D. scoffs. “Please, this is a big deal!” He lets the words hang, then bursts out laughing. “Nah, I’m fucking with you. It’s nothing special, ‘cept that you managed to make it through another year.”

Jughead shakes his head.

“Hey.” J.D. mutters, suddenly back at Jughead’s side after tending to a few other Serpents for a while. “Got you a present. Interested?” He’s grinning, bright and wide, and Jughead nods. “Awesome, follow me.”

Jughead does. He follows at J.D.’s heels, drink in hand, until they end up down the hall and off in a side room. They’re not alone; there’s a few other Serpents here and there, including Ricky. Jughead nods in greeting and Ricky smiles back at him.

“Alright,” J.D. announces as he suddenly turns to face Jughead. “Time for some real fun.” He gestures at Ricky to do— _something_ , Jughead isn’t sure what—until there’s the catch of a lighter and Jughead’s watching a flame flicker under a spoon. J.D.’s eyes are electric, excited.

“Uh.” Jughead clears his throat. “Is that…”

J.D.’s turns him and his expression dims as he goes. “Yeah.” He answers slowly. Cautiously.

“I thought it was just… dime bags of weed.” Jughead recalls his dad’s own words; they seem eons old by now, like they were said far longer ago than just over a year.

“We don’t move this shit.” J.D. says as though it’s obvious. “This is just for us.” By the time Ricky passes a needle and belt over, J.D. is nearly vibrating with excitement. “You’re gonna want to sit down.”

Jughead hesitates. All the other Serpents are watching him, and their gazes are heavy. They weigh on him. Just as the corners of J.D.’s lips start to twitch downward, Jughead throws back what’s left of his drink and passes the empty glass off to someone else. He shrugs off his jacket, glad he wore a t-shirt today, and lets himself fall into a nearby chair.

He stretches out his left arm and J.D. walks closer.

“You sure?” J.D. asks, cheeky. He asks after the belt is looped painfully tight around Jughead’s arm, and the tip of the needle is poised at his vein.

Jughead opens his mouth to shoot back a snarky retort but J.D. chooses that moment to stick the needle into his skin. The pain is quick, sharp, and Jughead startles. It only gets worse as J.D.’s thumb presses down. Jughead fights back the urge to squirm with discomfort, with fear. He wants to run and his heart is pounding, but he can’t bring himself to move.

When it’s over, J.D. undoes the belt from Jughead’s arm and steps back. “Now we wait.”

Jughead swallows.

He nods. 

He waits.

**Author's Note:**

> title/summary from [semi-charmed life by third eye blind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=beINamVRGy4), because can you get more fitting?


End file.
